


Birth of a Silver Fox

by deadcliche



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Canon Compliant, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Fluff, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Married Couple, Married Life, Non-Explicit Sex, Nonbinary Character, Nonbinary Kozume Kenma, Other, Post-Time Skip, Pranking, Slightly Morbid Humor, Teasing, allusions to sex, premature gray hair, stupidly in love, they/them kenma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:22:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28258389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadcliche/pseuds/deadcliche
Summary: But when he wiped the steam from the mirror after his shower and there were still a couple gleaming strands amongst the black ones, he balked. Kuroo Tetsurou, twenty-five, had two strands of gray hair.What the fuck.
Relationships: Kozume Kenma/Kuroo Tetsurou
Comments: 26
Kudos: 92
Collections: HQ Smutty Fluff-mas Exchange, Haikyuu_Fluff_Only





	Birth of a Silver Fox

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Aisem](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aisem/gifts).



> This is my secret santa fic for [Aisem](https://twitter.com/_aisem?s=21), I hope you love it. 
> 
> Note: I hc Kenma as non-binary and use gender-neutral (they/them) pronouns in this fic.

The first time it happened, Kuroo wondered what he had gotten in his hair. He hadn’t been working with any paints or flour, or anything else that could potentially discolor his black locks. Maybe some dust or dirt got on his hands while he was playing that torturous pickup match–he really needed to stop letting Bokuto goad him into three-on-three matches when he was in town for ‘old time’s sake’ with a bunch of professional athletes–and then transferred into his hair when he was pushing his sweat-drenched locks from his forehead. Still, he didn’t think much of it as he stripped in the bathroom, stepping into a much needed hot shower. The dried sweat on his skin itched and he was already sore; he liked to think he was still in good shape and kept an extensive gym habit, but nothing humbled and reminded him that he had an office job like playing volleyball with his friends who played the sport for a living. 

But when he wiped the steam from the mirror after his shower and there were still a couple gleaming strands amongst the black ones, he balked. Kuroo Tetsurou, twenty-five, had two strands of gray hair. _What the fuck._

He was only twenty-five years old. It wasn’t like his life was particularly stressful. His job was a dream, allowing him proximity to the sport he loved that he always knew he wasn’t going to pursue beyond college. He had a remarkably healthy relationship with his partner, a partner with whom he’d been best friends since childhood. His own parents definitely hadn’t started graying until he was an adolescent. So why the fuck did he have gray hairs? 

It was a fluke, he reassured himself as he quickly plucked the traitorous strands from his head, dropping them into the wastebasket. No need to have a quarter life crisis over two lone gray hairs. 

***

Except it wasn’t just two lone gray hairs. In the months that passed, they kept popping up. Like the weeds that plagued his mother’s garden, each time he tugged another gray hair from his head, several more popped up. As a child, he’d never understood why his mother spent hours in the sun, bent over her flowerbeds, yanking away the invading species, even though she knew they would just continue to come back. Hell, he’d never understood why the weeds were so offensive to her, why they didn’t deserve a place among the curated greenery–some of them were kind of neat looking, or at least as neat as a plant could be to a pre-adolescent boy. Now, he wanted to venture out to the suburbs and help his mother weed the garden, finally understanding her struggle. 

He thought that with enough perseverance, he could best the gray hairs, like they were a particularly difficult spiker and he just needed to observe their play style to figure out the best tactic for blocking them, but while staring his reflection down, he had to finally admit defeat. The grey hairs had not stopped appearing, and the rate at which they popped up like damn weeds was only increasing. He’d long since passed the point of discomfort in pulling so many hairs, but this was just too many to yank out, especially when it was a futile endeavor. 

Kuroo Tetsurou was going gray at the tender (even more tender than his scalp from months of plucking) age of twenty-six. Sick of staring at his reflection, not liking the way it mockingly looked back at him, he left the bathroom in a huff. He joined Kenma in their gaming room, lying out on the couch and wiggling his head into their lap. Kuroo glanced at the television screen; he doesn’t recognize the videogame, so it must be one Kenma was sent to beta test. He exhaled loudly, trying to get Kenma’s attention. 

Kenma paused their game, dropping the controller on the armrest of the couch and looking down at the man in their lap. “Yes, Kuro?”

“I’m old,” Kuroo whined. 

“Yes, twenty-six is practically geriatric. I’ve been wondering when I should put you in a home, it’ll be necessary soon.” Their voice was dry; Kenma had always been incredibly good at the whole dead-pan thing. Sometimes even Kuroo couldn’t tell when they were joking, and they’d known each other for twenty years–as best friends, teammates, and lovers. 

“Kenma, this is serious. People are going to start asking me if I’m your dad instead of your friend. The friend shit is bad enough, you would think that all the hand holding and matching rings and kissing would give them some clue, but I could not handle being called your dad.”

“Why would they think you’re my father, Kuro? Is this a weird way for you to tell me you want me to call you daddy?”

Kuroo made a choked little noise–maybe they would need to explore the whole daddy thing at a later date, when he wasn’t spiraling through an extremely premature midlife crisis. “I’m going gray.” 

Kenma’s hands dropped to the hair in their lap, doing their best to run their fingers through the absolute mess that is Kuroo’s bedhead-chic look, inspecting for gray. And it really didn’t take long; there was a fair bit of it. Kenma was honestly surprised they hadn’t noticed it before, blaming it on the fact that Kuroo was unnecessarily tall; his head was too far away for Kenma to inspect his hair with any frequency. “Oh look, you are.” 

“I’m too young to be gray, Kenma. My body is clearly in decay.” 

Kenma snorted at that, because decaying was certainly not how they would describe Kuroo’s body. Frustratingly lanky yet still muscular was Kenma’s go to. Or just hot, for simplicity's sake. “I mean, twenty-six is the new seventy-five,” they mused. 

“Kenmaaaaa.” 

“I’ll miss you, of course, but I was always destined to be a hot young widow, don’t you think?” 

***

“Kenma,” Kuroo called out from the breakfast nook, dropping the package on the table. “You got a package.” 

Kenma emerged from the back of the house, slippers tapping against the floor. They were bundled up in too many layers for the current early winter climate–it really wasn’t that cold yet, and they had the heat running in the apartment–but Kenma had always run cold. It was actually kind of nice, the way they always sought out Kuroo’s body heat in the night, curled up against his chest like a cat. 

“New game?” Kuroo asked as Kenma grabbed a knife from the kitchen. 

Kenma shook their head as they sliced the tape open, dropping the knife to the table. They pulled another box–like a shoe box, but round–from the packaging, and then slid the lid off. 

Kuroo used his height to lean over the table, peering down into the box. It contained… a hat? Kuroo was confused, because Kenma never really wore hats other than beanies, which were because they chilled easily, not fashion. And this certainly wasn’t a beanie. It was a small black hat, the vintage type 1950s housewives would wear that sat on an angle atop their head, with a piece of black mesh fabric that hung from the front. Kuroo had seen enough old movies to know that the mesh hung over women’s faces. It was decidedly un-Kenma; they occasionally wore skirts–those were the best days, since Kuroo thought their legs looked incredible in a skirt–and winged eyeliner was a frequent addition to their ensemble, but even when donning more traditionally feminine (a silly distinction, clothes don’t have gender) attire, Kenma was a very casual person, fond of joggers and oversized sweaters that hung slightly off their shoulders. This hat was not casual. Kuroo was sure it’d look adorable on Kenma because everything looked adorable on Kenma, but he wondered what had prompted his partner to order it. 

“What’d you get that for?” Kuroo questioned. 

Kenma placed the hat atop their head, looking infinitely more adorable than Kuroo had imagined. “Your funeral. I told you, I’m destined to be a young hot widow, and with your rapid aging, I need to be prepared. I can’t look anything less than flawless at the service.” 

Kuroo places his hands over his heart, sighing dramatically. “You wound me, Kenma.” 

“And you like it,” Kenma teased as they returned the hat to the box, closing it up again. 

“I really do,” Kuroo admitted, unable to stop the slightly crooked grin spreading across his face. 

“I have to stream soon,” Kenma said as they picked up the box and started back towards the bedroom. 

“I think I’m going to go for a run.” 

Kenma’s nose wrinkled. “But it’s so cold outside.” 

“It’s really not that bad. You’re just a baby when it comes to the cold.” 

“Try not to pull a muscle, old man.” 

***

After the hat came a pair of gloves: black, wrist length, with small pearl buttons at the wrist. Kuroo came home from work as Kenma was trying them on; his mouth dried at the sight of Kenma’s long fingers wrapped in the slightly shiny black fabric. “Gloves?” He managed to ask, distracted by how good their hands looked encased in black. 

“Mhmm,” Kenma sighs in agreement. “They’ll go nicely with the hat, don’t you think? I have to lean into the whole chic mourning aesthetic at your funeral, of course.”

“Why, you hoping to catch another man that quickly?” Kuroo teased, reaching out to grab one of Kenma’s hands to help them fasten the little buttons. Kuroo reached out for the other wrist, pausing to stroke Kenma’s hand softly–the fabric felt so smooth against his fingers–before doing the buttons. 

Kenma nodded, face full of mischief. “I think I’m destined to leave a string of dead husbands in my wake, don’t you?” 

Kuroo used his grip on Kenma’s wrist to pull them in closer, wrapping his arms around them and planting a kiss on the top of their head. “You’re certainly pretty enough for it. Just promise me you’ll wait until my body’s cold before moving on to the next man.” 

Kenma pulled away from the embrace slightly, threading one hand into Kuroo’s locks as they raised up on their toes and tugged Kuroo’s head down so they could kiss him. Softly. Gently. Reassuringly. When they broke apart, Kenma smiled sweetly. “That’s a big ask, Kuro. What if I meet the perfect man at the morgue? I could be into a mortician. There are hot morticians.” 

“I hate you so much.” Kuroo huffed, but the look in his eyes was adoring. 

“Love you, too.” 

“I think you’re way too excited to be a hot widow,” Kuroo mused. “Should I start worrying about poison in my food?” 

Kenma smirked. “We both know I can’t cook, Kuro. Poisoning your food would require me actually making food. And anyway, anything I cook is already dangerous to eat. It doesn’t need the addition of poison to be harmful.” 

Kuroo leaned down to kiss Kenma again, just a soft brush of his lips against theirs. Kenma sighed contently. “Very true. But maybe I will start sleeping with one eye open.” He dropped his arms from Kenma’s waist, stepping back towards the kitchen. “But since we’re talking about food, I’m starving. Yakisoba alright with you?” 

“Sure. I have a video to edit, you don’t need help, do you?” 

“Definitely not your help. I’d like to avoid catastrophe.” Kuroo called out over his shoulder as he walked to the kitchen. 

Kenma stuck their tongue out at his retreating figure. 

***

Kuroo said goodbye to his work friends outside the restaurant they had eaten brunch at in the early afternoon, shoving his hands in his coat pockets to fight the chill as he walked to the train station. Kenma had, of course, been invited to the outing and Kenma had, of course, wrinkled their nose at the prospect; they were hardly fond of outings with near strangers, and despite Kuroo’s efforts to familiarize his partner with his coworkers, Kenma still avoided their monthly brunch. The air was brisk, and Kuroo was looking forward to spending a lazy afternoon with his partner in the warmth of their home. An afternoon curled up on the couch or under the kotatsu gaming or watching movies sounded absolutely perfect to Kuroo. While beating Kenma at any game was next to impossible, it was still fun to play with them. Kuroo liked the look of determination in Kenma’s eyes while they gamed. When he arrived at the train station, he pulled his phone from his pocket, sending Kenma a message saying that he was at the station and would be home in half an hour. 

The train ride passed in a daze and before he knew it, Kuroo was at his stop. The cold air rushed against his face as he exited the station, prickling at his eyes and he felt his face pinken at the chill. Kuroo returned his hands to his pocket, taking advantage of the length of his stride to walk home as quickly as possible. 

Kuroo unlocked the door to their house, slipping his shoes off and hanging his coat in the genken. The warm air felt good against his wind chilled face. He dropped his keys in the small bowl on the console table, and then walked into the house. He made a beeline for the bedroom, not seeing Kenma on his way, and changed from the jeans and sweater he wore to lunch into sweats and a faded t-shirt. Kuroo was determined to spend the rest of the day relaxing–maybe they’d get ramen delivered for dinner so he wouldn’t have to cook or leave the apartment. After putting his clothes away, Kuroo left the bedroom, calling out in search of Kenma. 

“Dining room,” came Kenma’s soft response. Kuroo walked across the house, bare feet padding against the floors as he approached the dining room. Kenma was sitting at the table, papers spread out before them. Kuroo paused in the doorframe, sucking in a breath. They looked _incredible._ Kuroo suddenly felt very underdressed in his loungewear. Kenma’s nimble fingers were encased in those black gloves again, holding a pen and filling out some form. They were wearing a black turtleneck that clung to their torso, accenting their collarbones with a cape-like shawl draped over their shoulders. Kenma was all sleek lines in dark black, like a cat-burglar sent to slink into Kuroo’s fantasies. The little hat that started it all was perched atop their head, black lace falling gracefully over their eyes. Between admiring how damn good his partner looked, Kuroo realized that the hat and the gloves were part of the hypothetical funeral outfit. That Kenma was dolled up in mourning chic. 

He stepped further into the room, making his presence known, and Kenma’s golden gaze met his through the black lace. “What’s with the get up?” 

Kenma stood, tracing their hands down their figure, The turtleneck was tucked into a pair of wide legged trousers that elongated Kenma’s legs, making them look taller across the dining table. “You like?” They asked coyly. 

Despite the outfit’s implications, Kuroo could not deny how modelesque Kenma looks, so he answered honestly. “Yeah, you look… I’m speechless. What’s the occasion.” 

Kenma grinned wickedly. “Well, the cape arrived while you were out at brunch. Thought I’d try the whole ensemble on, since you won’t be able to see me in it at your funeral.” 

“I’m definitely not dying if you’re going to look like that at my grave.” Kuroo stepped around the table, approaching Kenma purposefully. 

Kenma took a few steps back away from Kuroo, gesturing at the papers on the table. “It doesn’t hurt to be prepared,” they mused, “which is why I’m working on this paperwork.” 

“Paperwork? Is it not stuff for Bouncing Ball?” Kuroo’s brain was barely working, he just wanted to see if that turtleneck was as soft as it looked. 

“No, this isn’t for work. It’s for your headstone” Kenma answered. “I have a couple of different options, I figured it was only fair to let you help choose. We can talk caskets after. Unless you want to be cremated, if so I have a few urns I like picked out.” 

Kuroo finally inspected the papers–he’d been distracted by Kenma’s appearance– and found that there were several pictures of headstones in various shades of marble among the forms. With that, Kuroo finally snapped, stalking towards Kenma with measured strides. Kenma just watched him, mischief in their eyes. Kuroo paused before them, but only for a moment before bending down, knocking Kenma’s knees and scooping them up into his arms. 

Kenma squealed as their feet left the ground, the hand at their back stopping them from toppling out of Kuroo’s grasp. “Kuro, what was that for?” They huffed. 

“If I was really an old man on my deathbed, would I be able to do this?” He strode out of the dining room, heading towards their bedroom, determined to repurpose the mourning outfit into something more mutually beneficial. 

Kenma reached up, threading a gloved hand through Kuroo’s silver speckled locks, tugging slightly. “You know,” they started, voice low and breathy, “I’ve always had a thing for silver foxes.” 

“Kenmaaa,” Kuroo whined, tossing his partner onto their bed, dark clothes contrasting with the white linens as they bounced slightly with the impact. “Why couldn’t you have just said that from the start?” 

“It’s just so fun to rile you up,” Kenma teased, spreading out on the bed. 

“Oh I’m plenty riled up.” Kuroo dropped down on the bed, hovering over Kenma, ducking down to capture their lips in a searing kiss, delving into their mouth, nipping at their bottom lip. He cupped their face with one hand, stroking their cheek softly with his thumb. Kuroo moved slowly, peeling off each item of black clothing with languid intent, ensuring that they’d no longer be associated with a hypothetical funeral, but with this moment of tangled limbs and flushed skin instead. Kuroo left no inch of Kenma untouched, tracing over the curves of the body he knew so well with practiced dedication, Kenma’s soft sighs sweet in his ears. 

In the glowing aftermath, Kenma’s head on Kuroo’s chest as the warm light of sunset filled their bedroom, Kuroo ran his fingers through their hair, marveling at the silky locks for the nth time. Kenma’s eyes fluttered closed as they wiggled their head against Kuroo’s chest, as if burrowing deeper. “Kuro?” Kenma spoke into Kuroo’s skin, muffling their question and the faint brush of their lips caused him to shudder slightly. 

“Mhmm?” 

Kenma shifted their head so they could peer up into Kuroo’s eyes. “You better not actually die on me,” they said seriously. 

Kuroo lifted his head slightly to press a kiss into Kenma’s forehead. “Wasn’t planning on it. You’re cute enough to leave a string of husbands behind, but I’d much rather be the only one.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed the fic! If you want to come hangout with me on Twitter (18+) click [here](https://mobile.twitter.com/beefyboihinata).


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